the last of the dragonkin

With one feral blow, the last of the dragonkin falls before your fist. You know what to do. She knows you know what to do. There is only one fate for the race you have worked so hard to exterminate. You are prepared.

 

Too battered and bruised to fight, she can only lie there, mouth agape with a subtle sort of horror as you undress. Your robe slips gentle off your skin, polyester gliding off your sweaty, exertion-reddened form. Your cock hangs flaccid between your legs. It won't be needed today.

 

You look down at your prey. She is as typical a specimen as any you've seen of her once noble 'race'. Grey scales covering her entire body, nipple-less breasts, egg-bearing hips ridiculously flared, like the knot of a canine cock. Her muscled arms lay there, too weak to move, and she just barely manages to sustain her grip on her spear, but no more. Her tail and her wings lie below her, and while mostly hidden they still manage to revolt you. While simultaneously filling you with pride. This is the last of the dragonkin.

 

You turn yourself around, ass facing your beaten victim. She can only blink in confusion. Not that you know this. That would be retarded. In one slick movement you lower yourself backwards, your masculine blowhole rubbing over her lips. You push her arms down, resting your weight on them and simultaneously pinning her down. The dragon bitch mumbles into your ass, which you respond to by pushing down harder. She will not win this.

 

Reluctantly, she gives you what she believes you want, eating out your delectable manpussy, swirling her tongue around like some kind of retarded bumblebee. Slight etchings of pleasure flood your system. But you don't really give a fuck. You're not here for that. With a tremendous push of your bowels, a tremendous effort, pain stretching out the lips of your boypussy, a massive, rock-hard shit-boner tear out of your asshole and down itno her throat. Before she can even gasp in surprise she is gagging on your tremendous turd, the solid mass of recycled refuge forcing her lips open. You have prepared well.

 

With another tremendous push, your anal rage-snake further impales her throat, all the miles of the congo river stretching her open, her attempts at breathing entirely halted by the progress of her monstrous intruder. The smell of shit fills the air, perfume to your nose as you labor towards the demise of the dragonkin, a century of slaughter punctuated by one, tremendous turd. It is poetry in motion, every push and the massive turd plummets further towards her intestines, her movements becoming more and more erratic as she chokes on your titanic. This is no shinking ship, however. It is a bowel propelled cruise missile, sent to sink the last bastion of the dragons. And it is well on it's way.

 

She struggles, her beaten body too weak to offer meaningful resistance and yet still, for all her inherited weakness, she offers some shivers of strength to struggle against her turd-induced fate. But you prevail. As always. You push, and push, running out of fuel but still going, your quest nearly over. Your shit-boner knows it's mission and will settle for nothing less than absolute victory. You will impale this bitch. You will destroy an entire species, all of their combined hopes and genetic dreams, all with your shit. An honor. They are below shit. As she gags, you only wish your head was capable of turning 180 degrees so that you could see the expression on her face. A shame.

 

Her throat contracts wildly around your turds, her spasmic twitches becoming weaker and weaker as the last of her oxygen is depleted. She is dying. Your mission is almost over. As if to punctuate your victory, the last of your shit leaves your bowels, like baby birds leaving their nest, the event punctuated by a long, slow, fart. It's over. The tearing pain of your anal crusade has left you sweating and breathing hard, but it is worth it. With a sigh, you collapse backwards, letting go of her arms and resting your entire weight on her face. She is dead now.

 

With a sigh, after a minute of resting, you push yourself upwards, turning around and looking at her dead body. You have done it. The genocide is over. But your buttocks have been soiled. As an after thought, you grab her arm, wiping her hand over your ass and using it as biological toilet paper. It's not perfect, but it will do. An after-touch to your masterpiece, he throat and stomache bulging with the mass of Shit'Thulud. You pick up your weapons and slowly redress. It's over. You leave.

 

But after half a minute of walking, you look back over your conquest, and ponder it. Affectionately. It was epic.